


Subluxation

by dialectica_esoterica



Series: Nocturne [4]
Category: The Queen's Gambit (TV)
Genre: Addiction, Another love triangle, Benny Watts POV, Beth Harmon POV, Canon Compliant, Canon Continuation, Character Development, Drinking, F/M, Heavy Angst, Jealousy, Love Triangles, Multi, POV Alternating, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:35:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27809977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dialectica_esoterica/pseuds/dialectica_esoterica
Summary: In which: Beth breaks Benny's heart without a single word, and learns that she's perfectly capable of breaking her own, too.
Relationships: Beth Harmon/Benny Watts
Series: Nocturne [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2017951
Comments: 56
Kudos: 280





	1. Chapter 1

_she’s coming back she’s coming back she said she’ll come back_

It’s stuck in his head, everywhere he goes; everything he does, he has a mantra playing in the back of his mind.

_she’s coming back she’s coming back she said she’ll come back_

In the produce aisle at the grocers, in line at the drug store, sitting at the counter of his (their) preferred diner: like an inverted haiku, it’s haunting him with the presence of a scored ghost.

It started before she left even, in the car on the way to the airport. There was never a moment where they came to an agreement (though really, there rarely are) about how Beth was getting to her flight from the apartment. It was simply mutually understood that Benny would be taking her, even though they had to wake up at five in the morning to get her there on time. This was made more difficult by the fact that they had only fallen asleep a few hours earlier – not because of anything sexual; truly, they were just talking. The topic of “Paris” was strictly off-limits by means of an unspoken rule – so, instead, they talked about everything else.

Benny has never – _had_ never – told a sexual partner about his family, his childhood. There was never any reason to share details. He’s not one to offer information that isn’t strictly necessary, but after Benny extended the invitation for Beth to come back to New York (which, for them, might as well have been a love declaration), he’s making a conscious effort to demonstrate that he’ll meet her halfway – more, even. If she needs it.

(One image, in particular, stands out from that night: Beth lying on his bed, tears in her eyes from how hard she was laughing after Benny told her about his disastrous first kiss. The memory of her breathless form is engraved into the back of his eyelids, apparently.)

Just as there was no communication about the logistics of getting to the airport, there was no communication at the airport itself. Benny unloaded her suitcase out of the trunk without being prompted, she captured him in an embrace that lasted maybe a second longer than he would have predicted, and then she was gone – disappearing through the door to the terminal clutching her bag and coat, her red waves bouncing with every step. It was fitting – really – a farewell with no unnecessary proclamations, no pomp and circumstance. Meaningful and sad and full of unbidden promise. It was Beth, condensed into thirty seconds.

He allowed himself a moment to stare into the spot that she disappeared, and then Benny forced himself to get back in his car and drive away.

At first, it was exhilarating: living with the knowledge that Beth had promised _–_ in her own malnourished way – that she was going to return. He had gotten the least tangible person he had ever met in his life to agree to something. Not just _any_ something, a really _big_ something _._ He was proud of himself, honestly. It hadn’t exactly been a small feat.

_she’s coming back! she said she would come back!_

He didn’t hear from her for five days. This was fine; he was expecting this. Benny knew from his own experience participating at Rémy-Vallon that there would be a few days before play began so that the competitors could become acquainted with the rules, the hotel; have a chat with the press. Importantly, also, was the time difference to consider – Paris is six hours ahead of him on the east coast, so not only would Beth be jetlagged, but she likely wouldn’t call out of respect for his stilted sleeping schedule - lest she wake him up.

That’s what he told himself, anyways.

Benny is a well-connected person in the media, given how many dozens of interviews and pieces he’s been featured in over the years. In addition, he’s on vaguely friendly terms with two non-Beth players in Paris, so he had access to information about the invitational that hasn’t been released to the public. He manages to find out (with little subtlety) that Beth is playing Malova first; she seems focused and relaxed. Charles, his contact at the _Post,_ isn’t amused to be asked about her attire ( _was her skirt navy or black?_ ) even if it’s on the grounds that her clothing is emblematic of her mood and as her coach, Benny needs to know.

It’s on the fourth day when she plays Bergland that Benny finally breaks and calls the hotel to leave a message for her. It’s nothing intimate: _just_ _checking in, let me know if you want to go over any strategy before you play Borgov_.

He expects to hear from her when she wakes up (which would have been the middle of the night for him, not that he stayed awake or anything), but it’s a full twelve hours before she calls back. Beth sounds relaxed, yes, but it’s clear she’s not in the mood to chat. They end the call after a handful of clinical sentences are exchanged.

She’s busy preparing for her faceoff with Borgov tomorrow, and intercontinental phone calls are egregiously expensive. She’ll call when she wants to talk more.

* * *

She doesn’t.

Benny gets three phone calls on the sixth day of her absence.

None of which are from Beth Harmon.

* * *

I.

It’s nine o’clock, on the dot. Benny’s phone rings – he scrambles to pick it up before he realizes that it’s three in the morning in Paris. Ergo, Beth would not be the one calling. She plays Borgov tomorrow; this is the most important night of her life to be asleep.

He still picks it up.

“You have a long-distance call waiting. It’s collect from France.” It’s an operator speaking.

Benny falters. Has he done the math wrong? No, it’s definitely the middle of the night. It could be one of his reporter buddies working late, calling to get a quote from him before dictating their story to a copy editor. “Put it through.”

He can tell, immediately, that this is not a professional call. There’s heavy breathing on the other end of the line. “Beth?” he asks, cautiously. Maybe it’s late-night nerves?

It’s not. “One drink, I told her. Do you know how many she actually had? Nine. And that’s just before she left the bar.”

The speaker is sickeningly feminine, with an accent that could rival the most prominent French stereotypes. He’s got an instant headache because _that_ voice on the other end of a telephone has never resulted in something good.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “What happened, Cleo?”

She’s drunk. “Don’t worry. Your pet project is fast asleep.”

Benny bristles at the notion that Beth is just a little fascination; something to occupy his time. “Don’t call her that. What did you do?”

 _“I_ did nothing. She can really drink; did you know how much she can drink? You Americans drink like you have nothing to live for.”

He’s mad now. “Do you know who she’s playing tomorrow? What the _fuck_ are you thinking, getting her drunk? Goddammit, Cleo, this is not a fucking _game.”_

The breathy pout is audible. “I thought that was _exactly_ what chess was. It has rules and little plastic pieces, that makes it a game, no?”

Okay, damage control. Benny swallows his annoyance and frustration and, yes, worry, about how and why Beth decided to gamble with her conscience, on tonight of all nights. She knows better than this. She _is_ better than this.

“Listen to me. You need to make sure she wakes up with enough time to eat and shower before the match. It’s at ten; get her up by nine. Make sure she drinks some coffee, too.”

Cleo laughs. “She’s a grown woman, Benny.” She says his name the way she always used to say it, the times they were alone: Be- _nee,_ with her stupid sultry French accent.

What does she know about sultry? Beth _invented_ sultry; Beth is the patron saint of sultry.

“She can take care of herself, you know. She doesn’t need a keeper.”

Benny wants to reach through the phone and grab her chin like one would a petulant child; force her to look into his eyes and see the gravity of the situation. “I’m not her keeper, _Cleo._ She worked too hard for this – for _you_ – to fuck it up.”

Cleo only hears one word from that sentence. “Fucking! Ah, yes. She’s an _excellent_ fuck, don’t you think?”

Benny’s heart falls. All the way to the floor.

His voice is a whisper. “What did you do?”

She laughs again, and Benny fucking _hates_ her. Has never felt such raw vitriol for another person in his life. Somehow, she keeps talking, and he hates her in new and exciting ways with each new word.

“Quite a tongue, that girl has. The face she makes when she comes? _Divine._ But I don’t need to tell you that, do I? _”_ She mock-moans.

Benny forces himself to take a breath in and out before responding.

“Cleo. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what happened - with us. I’m sorry for hurting you. But, please. _Please._ Don’t take it out on Beth. Leave her out of this.”

She gasps, false and sardonic, into the phone. “Who says I’m taking it out on anyone? What if I just wanted to _fuck,_ Benny?”

It’s bait. “Why else would you have called me?”

Cleo hums, conciliatory. “You caught me. This is why you’re the chess player and I’m just the model you phoned when you were lonely.”

Another breath, in and out. His head _aches_. “Can you take care of her, or not?”

“Of course. She deserves it, doesn’t she? Let me get her into the bath now.”

Cleo drops the receiver, and then he can hear muffled noises on the other end of the line: girly squeals and giggling. Benny has to restrain his heart from jumping in his chest at the sound: _Beth._ She’s there, and she’s alive, even if she’s clearly not okay.

The sound of faint running water blocks the sound of faint voices, and Benny waits: one minute, two.

He ends the call.

* * *

II.

The second time the phone rings, Benny is drunk. Can’t stand without swaying, has trouble remembering why he got drunk, _drunk._

He’s interrupted from giggling at the pronunciation of the word “drunk” by the phone. It’s so shrill, honestly, who invented such a harsh ring? It should be something soft and soothing, like singing. Or humming! That would be even better. Beth is great at humming. He’d definitely pick up the phone, always, if he could hear that sound instead of stupid _ringing._

(It’s four in the morning now, in New York. Shortly after the phone call from Cleo, Benny had decided that it was best not to be left alone with his thoughts, so he did something rash and impulsive and broke his own rule about alcohol in his apartment. He had walked to the corner bodega in a daze, almost cheerful at the prospect of giving up his sobriety, to purchase as much cheap beer as ten American dollars could buy.

“For a party?” the cashier had asked.

“Nope,” he told her, merrily, before returning home.

And so: he drank.

And drank….

And drank.

If it was good enough for Beth, it was going to be good enough for him.

_She’s coming back. She promised she’d come back. We’ll fix it then.)_

Benny sighs with relief when the phone stops ringing, only to resume a few moments later. He grumbles all the way to the other side of the room to pick it back up.

“What?”

Same operator as before. She sounds vaguely amused at his tone.

“Long distance call, Paris?”

“Fine.”

A moment, and then: “Benny?”

It’s Charles, his friend from the _New York Post._ Benny breathes out a sigh he didn’t know he was holding; he’s equal parts relieved and frustrated that it’s not Beth.

“Yeah.”

“Listen, I just spent all night writing that piece on the Harmon-Bergland game – thanks for your quote on that, by the way – but it’s quarter after ten and Harmon hasn’t bothered to show up for her last match. You’ve been mentoring her, right? Any ideas where she could be?”

Benny realizes with a jolt – delayed by a few seconds because of his inebriation – that he had intended to call Beth’s room an hour ago to make sure she woke up. He knows Charles isn’t really calling to find out how to locate Beth, he’s calling to get Benny’s reaction to the news that she’s late. Still, this would be his way to fix it; to make up for his previous error in not providing a wake-up call. He could tell Charles to send someone up to her room and get her there just a few minutes late.

He could get Beth to her match with Borgov, if he spoke up now.

(But: there’s a part of him – a part that he’s not ready to acknowledge, as of yet – that is bitterly disappointed and more than a little betrayed that Beth hadn’t bothered to wait an entire week before jumping into bed with someone new.)

(Maybe, just maybe - )

“No,” he tells Charles. “No idea where she is.”

* * *

III. 

Benny is in the middle of drinking himself to death when he gets his final phone call. He’s recently gotten the news that Beth showed up to her match, clearly unwell, and was beaten soundly. He’s given up trying to have… _thoughts_. There’s one thing his mind can fixate on, and it’s the same thing he’s been fixating on for six days straight, sober or not.

_she’s coming back she’s coming back she said she’ll come back_

“Collect call. France.”

“Whatever.”

It’s Cleo again, and she’s returned for one more parting blow.

_“How does it feel to love someone who cannot love you back?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'm going to fix this.
> 
> You'll have to forgive me for making the Cleo the villain here. I know a lot of people really liked her character and I truly don't have anything against her - but this plot was too delicious not to pursue. 
> 
> Also, in case anyone is wondering about the titles of the works in this series: I picture each of the works as having a distinctive physical movement, with regards to Beth & Benny's relationship. A subluxation is a medical term referring to the partial dislocation of a joint. It's incredibly painful. Just seemed fitting.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which: Beth is perfectly capable of breaking her own heart.

Beth is lost. Literally, figuratively, hypothetically, metaphorically. Has been for as long as she can remember.

For someone with supposedly remarkable spatial awareness, Beth is not terribly good with directions. Her French is only passable enough to be able to ask for instructions about how to get around, not to actually understand them. Also, despite her pseudo-celebrity status at chess tournaments, she’s found that any awe Parisians might hold about her slight fame is generally greatly overshadowed by their disdain for Americans. 

It’s dawning on her now that she may have been given faulty directions – either that, or she’s drunker than she thought.

Both are equally possible.

Beth pauses in front of the sign for Rue Galilée to vomit. ( _“Putain de tourists_ , _”_ she hears someone mutter behind her.) It’s only after she wipes her mouth on her coat sleeve that she realizes Rue Galilée is in the opposite direction of her hotel, and that she’s been walking – probably just staggering – the wrong way, for the last ten minutes. Isn’t that just fitting?

She keeps walking, anyway.

She’s never been good at losing. Ironically, it’s the one thing that she’s really bad at. And now: twice. She’s lost to the same man, twice. The odds of your average layman beating a player of Beth’s caliber? Roughly 0.0001%, or one in a million.

The odds of Vasily Borgov beating Beth Harmon? Apparently, 200%, or _two in one._

But: Beth is done thinking about it. She’s done thinking, generally. Hence, the drinking. And the wandering. And the intentionally-not calling the one person who can actually relate.

And the fucking.

Does she regret it? Frankly, she can’t remember enough to regret it in the traditional sense. She remembers the moment last night, in the bar – between her first and second drinks, where she had to pause and consider what she wanted. It’s clear now that the choice she made to keep drinking was actually made a long, long time ago by forces much more important than she. And who is Beth to argue with that?

Beth is who she is, and it’s become increasingly clear that she cannot change that. So why bother trying? All she can do to numb the sense of shame and frustration and anger is to keep pushing it back down; shoving it back like a rogue Jack-in-the-box that will inevitably pop up again soon.

* * *

_“Do you like to fuck?”_

_“Cleo!”_

_“I’ll make it easier for you: did you like to fuck Benny?”_

_“…..Sometimes.”_

_“How romantic. Have you ever been in love?”_

_“Not with Benny.”_

_“Of course not. No woman can compete with Benny’s love for himself. So… we are still in love? What’s his name?”_

_“Townes.”_

_“Cheers: to unrequited love. And - to stupid men.”_

* * *

Beth feigned sobriety as best she could during her match with Borgov, but the truth is that she hasn’t been sober since New York. It wouldn’t be the first time she was inebriated during a tournament – what is she, an Olympian? When’s the last time a chess player had to piss in a cup? - so in that sense, it didn’t make a difference.

Only: it’s no longer drugs and alcohol that can take away her sobriety. Beth got far, far closer than she’s comfortable to Benny. It matters because unlike her mother, or Cleo, or even Townes, he can see right through her. It’s this feeling, this _fear_ , that’s keeping her strung out. If she goes back to Benny, she’ll have to go through this cycle of high and low and then, the worst, _withdrawal_ all over again.

She won’t. She can’t.

“Tu vas bien? Mademoiselle?”

There’s not enough left in her stomach to serve as vomit, but somehow, her body finds a way.

“Mademoiselle? Es-tu perdu?”

Beth pauses her _vomissement_ to look behind her. She finds an elderly woman in bedclothes, watching her with curiosity and sympathy. This must be the outside of her house that Beth is brusquely emptying her stomach upon.

One word will have to do the trick – good thing it’s the same in all three of the languages she semi-speaks.

“Taxi?”

* * *

_“D’you know, I was really anxious to ask you to stay?”_

_“Why would that make you anxious? You’ve done much harder things, Benny Watts.”_

_“Not like this.”_

_“What does that mean?”_

_“Don’t worry about it.”_

_“No, really. Tell me?”_

_“…Do you believe in coincidences?”_

_“What, like in terms of mathematics?”_

_“Not exactly. More, like… do you think that the universe is governed by some kind of divine order? Or do you think that it’s all just chaos?”_

_“Chaos. Definitely.”_

_“I’d be inclined to agree.”_

_“Why are you asking, Benny? Weird choice of topic for pillow talk.”_

_“I’m just glad. For the chaos.”_

* * *

It’s a luxurious bed, really. It’s enormous and elegant and has the most comfortable duvet Beth has ever had the luxury of sleeping under. And, currently, it’s covered in stomach bile and half of a bottle of vodka that missed her mouth at some point last night. Beth thinks, not for the first time in her life, that the person who invented alcohol should be tried for crimes against humanity at the Hague.

This is unlike any hangover she’s ever had the privilege of suffering from before - her whole body hurts, like she’s covered in bruises that haven’t made their way to the surface yet. She’s dehydrated and hungry and also queasy at the same time. Her head is at the bottom of the Atlantic ocean. Her body is really, really angry with her.

She’s missed her flight, that much is clear by the sun’s low position in the sky. Just as well – Beth is not going back to New York, and she needs to call the airline to get a new ticket. Hopefully they’ll route her through DC or maybe Philadelphia so she doesn’t have to sit in the terminal at Idlewild and feel guilty about her proximity to Benny.

She coddles her own body out of bed and onto the floor. It’s both better and worse at the same time. She has to call him, at least. Save him the trouble of driving out to the airport.

Does Beth love Benny? No.

Does Beth have feelings for Townes that are complex and difficult to understand? Yes.

Does Beth have these feelings for Benny, too?

Also, yes.

Is she ready to confront those feelings, head on?

No.

* * *

_“There’s a rumor you were drunk.”_

_“I wasn’t drunk.”_

_“Hungover, then.”_

_“I could have been stone-cold sober. It wouldn’t have made the slightest difference.”_

_“I don’t believe that. What time do you get in? I can come pick you up.”_

_“I’m going back to Lexington. I need to be alone.”_

_“That is the opposite of what you need. Beth, please… just come to New York. We can talk it out.”_

_“Thank you, Benny. For everything.”_

_“You shouldn’t be by yourself. You know what happens.”_

_“Maybe that’s what I want.”_

_“What, to get drunk?”_

_“Yeah. Good and drunk. Fucking bombed. And maybe high, too. Why not?”_

_“You wouldn’t. If you were with me.”_

_“I know.”_

* * *

Beth holds it together for one week. One whole week before she’s drunkenly concussing her head on the living room coffee table.

One whole week before Harry shows up with his poorly-concealed attempt at an intervention, which does nothing but insult Beth and push her further into the arms of the bottle. If he really knew her, he would have known that.

If he really knew her, Harry would have known that trying to help her could be succinctly described as “futile.” She leaves the local tournament before it begins, and then blocks out her schedule for the rest of the day to drink.

Beth, as it turns out, is more resentful of Harry than she originally realized. She’s rather preoccupied with her most treasured pastime of _liver torture_ when a thought occurs to her: she doesn’t know if she loves Benny, or Townes – but she for sure isn’t in love with Harry. This is important data: if she understands “not-love,” then maybe she can understand “love” as its inverse.

God help her. If there is another woman in the entire history of the world who has had the idea of plotting out her feelings for men using x and y coordinates on a cartesian graph, Beth will give her house to the next person who rings the doorbell.

Actually, on second thought – maybe her mother would have. The first one. _There goes the fucking house._ Just as well: she’s apparently incapable of responsible homeownership, and managing a checking account, and other important adult things like finding quality maple furniture.

Beth might have loved Harry, if she had a different life. Maybe, if she had been born into a normal family who encouraged her to pursue normal activities, she would have wanted to get married and settle down like stupid fucking Margaret from the Apple Pi club. Maybe she would have met Harry, and he would have loved her the same way he does now, and she could be satisfied by his unconditional admiration, instead of… whatever it is she’s doing now.

It’s a nice thought, one that lulls her to sleep - and when she wakes up, there’s a ghost at her door.

* * *

_“I’m supposed to go to Russia at the end of the year. I’m afraid.”_

_“Then don’t go.”_

_“I have to go. If I don’t, there’s nothing for me to do. I’ll just drink.”_

_“Looks like you do that anyway.”_

_“I need to quit the wine. And the pills, and… clean this place up.”_

_“That’d be a good place to start.”_

_“I read about this pop artist once. He bought an original drawing by Michelangelo. When he got home, he took a piece of art gum, and just… erased it. Leaving nothing but a blank page. Now I wonder… if I haven’t somehow erased my own brain.”_

_“Let’s pretend that you didn’t just compare yourself to Michelangelo.”_

* * *

Jolene is… medicine. A breath of fresh air; a life raft thrown to a drowning man. She’s every cliché in the book that represents something Beth didn’t know she needed: a good, healthy dose of reality. Jolene is having none of her self-indulgent, hedonistic bullshit. Beth forgot that there was one other person on the planet who could see right through her, besides Benny. She had forgotten how grounding it was.

Beth had forgotten that she could just _be_ with another person, without the burden of explaining to them that there’s something fundamentally wrong with her. Jolene knows. More importantly, she doesn’t care.

Her old trailer and the Methuen Home haven’t changed enough to convince her that they aren’t frozen in time. She’s irrationally scared that if she gets too close, she’ll be pulled into their gravity fields and be thrown back into the body of a nine-year-old who already knows how the world works – and that she’ll never have a place in it.

“Aww, honey. Did you bite off more than you can chew?”

She did. She really, really did. But still – it’s a turning point for her. A reminder that chess is not just a game, or a way to make money, or a vehicle with which to travel the world – it’s a debt that must be paid to Mr. Shaibel, to Harry, to Benny, to Jolene, to Alma. Anyone who has ever helped her succeed in some way.

She’s going go to Russia, and she’s going to play in the Moscow Invitational.

* * *

_“Are the tickets paid for?”  
  
_

_“No. Nothing’s paid for.”_

_“Okay, you understand that you gotta pay Intourist for the hotel in advance?”_

_“I know that. I have two thousand in my bank account. It would be more, but I’ve been keeping up the house. It’s gonna take a thousand more to do it; at least that. I was wondering –”_

_“I don’t have it.”_

_“What do you mean? You’ve got money.”_

_“I don’t have it.”_

_“Did you gamble it all away?”_

_“What difference does it make? You can call the Federation, or the State Department.”  
  
_

_“The Federation doesn’t like me. They think I haven’t done as much for chess as I could have.”_

_“Should have gone on_ Tonight, Phil Donahue… _”_

_“Benny, come on. I don’t want to go to Russia by myself.”_

_“Are you kidding me?”  
  
_

_“What?”_

_“First, you don’t come back to New York, and you basically tell me that you’d rather be a drunk than be with me? And now, you pull this crap? No, you can fucking well go alone.”_

_“Maybe I shouldn’t have done it.”_

_“Maybe? ‘Maybe’ is a loser’s word, Beth.”_

_“Benny…”_

_“Don’t call me anymore.”_

* * *

How does Beth know what love is?

Because, now – she knows what it means to have a broken heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have my word that this is the last chapter of angst before I fix their relationship. I needed sort of a transitional chapter from this act to the next, which is why I've let the show speak for itself in several places. 
> 
> Because the viewers of the show (us) know everything there is to know about Beth, it's much harder to write from her perspective. There's a much smaller margin of error surrounding her thoughts and behavior, which is why I much prefer writing from Benny's perspective. It allows for me to take creative liberties that I cannot do as easily with Beth.
> 
> putain de touristes - fucking tourists
> 
> tu vas bien? es-tu perdu? - are you well? are you lost?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation between unlikely allies.

Skol'ko eto stoit?

_How much is this?_

Kak daleko?

_How far?_

Segodnya zharko.

_The weather is hot._

Mne plokho.

_I feel sick._

Pozhaluysta.

_Please._

It had sounded so lovely coming out of her mouth: _pozhaluysta_. Please. Of all the Russian words and phrases he’s heard her say, that was his favorite.

 _Pozhaluysta_.

She’s breathy and gasping and writhing and glorious, her nails tearing marks into the skin of his shoulders. Beth’s got her legs wrapped around his waist like a clinging vine, making little _oh, oh, oh_ sounds as he rocks into her gradually, deliberately. He likes to take his time with her.

“Fuck, you’re incredible.”

“Benny, Benny. Please. _Pozhaluysta_ , Benny, _please_.”

“Tell me what you want, Beth.” His voice is a low rumble against her collarbone. He grazes his teeth against the firm ridge, delighting in the way that she throws her head backwards at the sensation.

“Oh god, oh fuck, _fuck_ , Benny, please god, don’t stop.”

“Beg me for it. I’m the only one who can give you what you need, yeah?”

“ _Pozhaluysta_ , I need you, Benny.”

Being connected to her – it’s everything sex was supposed to be, everything it _can_ be. She is his muse, his divinity: his equal, in every possible way.

“You’re mine, Beth Harmon, do you hear me? You belong to me, yes?”

_“I love you, Benny Watts.”_

She’s everything he didn’t know he wanted – monogamy, emotional intimacy, commitment. Beth has his heart in her tiny, perfect hands.

“Beth, Beth, _Beth_ , tell me you need me, _tell me you love me.”_

_“I love you, Benny.”_

He spills into the shower drain, and the illusion shatters.

* * *

His apartment is exactly the same, give or take one inflated mattress in the sitting area. Perhaps he shouldn’t have let her sleep on it – it was here when he moved in. Benny has no idea where it came from, or who else slept on it before it came into his possession. Maybe that’s why he was so ready to let her sleep in his bed - it was out of concern for her.

(His mattress is not much more comfortable than the inflatable. She didn’t seem to notice. Benny will never admit it to another living soul, but after he dropped her off at the airport, he came back and laid in his bed, just to commit her scent to memory before it completely faded.)

Since _that_ ugly phone call, though, Benny has told himself he’s not allowed to think about her – at least, not outside of the shower, when he has to face himself in the light of day. Beth hated his shower, hated using it – so it doesn’t really count if he thinks about her there, right? Her dislike of his shower cancels out his fondness for her, so it’s a zero-sum game.

Right?

Either way, it’s clear that he needs to move on. His hybrid half-fantasy, half-reality jerkoff material is only utilized to serve its aforementioned purpose, and then he’s spending the rest of his time devoting himself to his craft – reclaiming his title as America’s most talented chess player since Morphy. Benny’s days as a coach are over.

While Beth is busy scrounging up the money to go to Moscow (alone, as far as he knows), Benny is winning battle after glorious battle at the Northeast Open in Boston. While she prepares for the fight of her life against four Soviet grandmasters, he’s emerging victorious at Chess Congress in Nashville. While he tours the country courtesy of the Federation to triumph against lesser players, she’s being kept docile under the thumb of KGB officials in her bitterly-cold Moscow hotel room.

He doesn’t have to imagine the last one. He knows, from personal experience, how terribly uncomfortable it is to be an American in the USSR. As if it wasn’t enough to have the Russian bodyguards (hitmen?) breathing down his neck, he was also assigned a handler by the State Department – who had been CIA, from what Benny could gather. He assumes Beth will have her own agent, too. At least he had the benefit of Weiss as a second, and though they couldn’t speak openly about how fucking bizarre the situation was while they were there, he at least had the comforting knowledge that he wasn’t alone in the Land of the Midnight Sun.

Yeah, fuck that. He’s so glad he doesn’t have to do it again. Benny will take cold, hard American capitalism over bugged hotel rooms and whatever the fuck _borscht_ is, any day of the week.

Other than a few pointed questions from the press, _she_ remains out of sight, out of mind (mostly) for one entire month, before he receives a slap to the face of _Beth_ in the form of one Harry Beltik, in goddamned Manhattan of all places.

It’s late – almost midnight – in the lounge of the Iroquois, and Benny is finishing a conversation with a handful of fellow competitors that he’s met during Supernationals that week. None of them had even come close to giving him a real challenge. It had been an easy week of cool victories and enough prize money to cover rent for several months – or, alternatively, to take an impulsive trip to Russia. He banishes that thought before it gains any traction.

He’s midway through reciting his go-to lecture about endgame strategy to a group of finalists when Harry walks in. At first, Benny doesn’t notice him – this is a delicate speech, because it requires the speaker to walk the line between appearing helpful without actually giving away any information that isn’t already written in a book somewhere. They’re all fools if they think Benny is going to freely give out any _actual_ strategy. He’s not a trainer anymore, and even if he was?

He only takes on the very best.

“You have to think about it like a hand of poker. How much should you be revealing, to your opponent? How much do they already know about you? What do you know about them? Information, tactics, knowledge about your opponent – it’s tantamount to victory, in the chess world.”

Benny watches the group of chess players and off-duty press corps members nod solemnly like he’s just delivered a sermon, unaware that he’s watching their reactions carefully to determine how many actually care about what he’s saying, and how many just agree with him regardless of what he says. It’s all the latter. Naïve bastards.

“A moment of your time, Mr. Watts?”

He swivels on his barstool, expecting to politely reject a reporter – instead, Benny has to refrain from grimacing.

“Harry Beltik! It’s been a while, my friend.” Benny offers the hand that’s not holding a lit cigarette. Harry takes a minute to look at it, studiously, before accepting the handshake and sliding onto the seat adjacent.

Perhaps Benny overstepped by calling him “friend.” They’ve never been close – it was always pretty clear that Harry was never going to advance past the rank of regional champion; he was never anywhere near Benny’s level. Still – they’ve met at a handful of tournaments over the years and have always had cordial interactions.

“I heard through the grapevine that you retired from competition a while back. What brings you to Supernationals, if you didn’t compete?”

Harry doesn’t respond immediately - just flags down the bartender. She’s a pretty blonde who approaches with a soft smile, her hands on her white apron.

“Old-fashioned?” he requests, and she nods and turns away. It’s a long moment before Harry speaks – like he knows that he has Benny’s attention, and can take as long as he wants.

“I came to talk to you. I saw the final today; you’re just as sharp as you’ve always been.”

“Uh, thanks. You came to talk to me?”

Harry inclines his head, once. “Engineering conference. I graduate in May, and there’s some companies scouting at this event in Newark.”

Benny is rattled. He feels his eyebrows climbing slowly up his forehead. “You came here from Newark. To talk to me?”

Beltik grins, and Benny recalls what Beth said about his teeth being fixed. She’s right - they do look much better.

“I did. Seems we have something in common.”

“Yeah? What would that be?”

“We’ve both been ruined by Beth Harmon.”

Benny chokes on his beer.

Harry thumps him on the back, still grinning, like the whole situation is a big laugh. Benny shrugs his hand off, conspicuously. “What the hell, Beltik?”

The admonishment only makes Harry chuckle, which makes Benny more annoyed. Did he come here to gloat? To prove that it doesn’t matter how good of a chess player one is, in the face of Beth Harmon’s flightiness? He glares at Harry, who only smiles back.

“I’m not your competition, Benny. Not for chess, not for Beth.”

“I don’t – I don’t understand.”

The waitress reappears at that moment with Harry’s drink. He accepts it with a thankful nod, then takes a sip, and she scutters off to the other end of the bar.

“ _Harry_. Why are you here?”

He chuckles into his cocktail. “I know you’re in love with her. I was too, before. It’s kind of impossible not to fall for her, huh?”

Benny tries not to gape at his nonchalance. He forces himself to school his expression; to adopt his familiar cool demeanor. “Not that it’s any of your business, but hypothetically, _if_ I was in love with her: why bring that up?”

Harry nods, slowly. “She’s all alone, in Moscow.”

“Yeah, so? She made it pretty clear she _wants_ to be alone.”

Harry nods again. “That’s what she does. She pushes people away. I don’t even think she does it on purpose.”

Benny snorts. “How do you figure?”

“I’m not a psych major. But I know this much about Beth: she gives up on love before it can give up on her. It’s the one thing she can control, you know?”

It makes sense, Benny thinks, begrudgingly. But still – he’s not ready to let go of the hurt he feels; to forgive her right away. She’s voyaged into his life with the grace of a bull in a china shop, smashing everything within reach: his feelings, his trust, his empathy.

Benny is a lot of things, but very rarely is he the Bigger Person. He stubs out his cigarette that he forgot to smoke; it’s turned to ash all the way down to the filter.

“So, what? You think we should get up and go to Moscow tonight?”

Harry snickers, softly. “No. I wasn’t suggesting that. You got another smoke?”

He hands over the pack of Chesterfields from his pocket. Harry takes one and lights it using a match from the book on the bar counter, the one with the Iroquois Hotel insignia printed on the front.

“What are you suggesting, then? I know for a fact it takes _at_ _least_ a month to get a Russian visa.” Benny is impatient; wants to get to the bottom of this conversation and find out why exactly he needs to get involved in Beth’s life again - so he can figure out a way to get out of it.

“I am suggesting,” Harry warbles around the cigarette in his mouth, “that you hand her an _ex machina._ ”

Now, Benny is not dumb. He knows this, the chess world knows this, the children’s psychologist who declared his IQ to be _almost impossibly high_ knows this. 

_However:_ it is possible that in his haste to leave formalized education behind, he may have missed out on a handful of curriculum staples, including but not limited to: literary tropes and devices, the history of the revolutionary war, how to properly dissect a frog, etcetera. His confusion at the unfamiliar term must be entirely evident on his face, because Harry is proceeding with an explanation without prompting.

“So, the ancient Greeks, they loved their tragedies, right? Their plays, written by these philosophers who were basically rock stars, would be worthy of such a spectacle that they built these elaborate pulley systems to give the illusion that an actor would be flying across the stage.

“Okay, so, picture it: you’re watching the play, and all hope is lost for the characters; I mean, it looks like there’s no way out from whatever’s going on in their little story, and all of a sudden: God himself - or one of them anyway - enters the scene and it looks like he’s fucking floating. And this God character, he snaps his fingers, and the plot is miraculously fixed because he’s a god and he can do whatever he wants. Hence: _deus ex machina,_ Latin for ‘god from the machine.’”

“Harry.” He’s lost his patience, now. “We are not flying to fucking _Russia.”_

“No, _asshole_ , I’m not proposing that. God, now that I see it in person, you two might actually be perfect for each other. You’re both so _difficult.”_

Benny hates himself for how his heart reacts to hearing that.

“What I am trying to say,” Harry continues, ashing his cigarette, “is that you _could_ give her an out. Tell her what she needs to hear, without actually saying it.”

“What, exactly, would that be?”

Harry takes a good, long pull on his cigarette.

“That she isn’t alone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I know what I originally said, but there's one more chapter in this work, and then the last work will be smut and fluff and relationship repairing. I just really liked the way this conversation turned out and wanted to publish it ASAP.
> 
> Feel free to correct my Russian! Fun fact - "pozhaluysta" can mean both "please" or "you're welcome," depending on the situation.


	4. Chapter 4

For the first time in possibly forever, Beth has clarity.

Shocking, truly. Beth has been waiting for this day for a long, _long_ time. She’s spent most of her life oscillating between the comfort found in chaos and the wistfulness that comes from chasing control, and this is an entirely new experience. A mix between a high and a thrill, with a bit of apprehension thrown in for posterity’s sake.

Winning the Moscow Invitational was not the high point in her life, despite what she’d been expecting when she fantasized about claiming victory over Borgov and his comrades. The high point came later that night in her cold hotel room, sharing glasses of truly flammable Soviet vodka with the lovely Townes after braving the press gauntlet. She loves Townes, certainly, but with each passing moment spent in each other’s company it becomes clearer that her girlish infatuation has given way to a richer sense of admiration and gratitude. _A companion,_ her mind helpfully supplies.

“I just can’t believe it,” she finds herself saying, more than once. “I thought there was some insidious part of me, like a curse, that would prevent me from ever accomplishing this.”

She’s on cloud nine, not because she won: but because she won _in spite_ of the years of self-sabotage; of shooting herself in the foot nearly every day. It’s proof of the fact that she’s not all bad. She can cling to this moment, knowing there is something good inside her, and use that to fuel her ambitions, past and future. Townes holds her close, quietly witnessing Beth lay her soul bare.

She kisses him, and he kisses her, and it’s good. Great, even. There’s a mutual attraction, undeniably. But Beth has clarity, and she is aware of and content with the fact that their paths are divergent. This time that they share together in Moscow is enough – it’s a picture-perfect snowglobe vignette, complete with a falling flurry outside her window.

She can move on now. 

* * *

Beth returns to the United States – as she had been warned – in triumph. Sure, she had been _passably_ well-known before Moscow – she’d been able to get into that one exclusive nightclub in New York just by being recognized. Overnight, though – or rather, overseas – she became as recognizable as… well, maybe not a full celebrity, but a half-celebrity in any case. She finally makes her belated appearances on _Phil Donahue_ and the _Tonight Show_ , and gets to take a very vain sort of satisfaction in publicly proving her skills on national television. Beth lets people call her a _marvel,_ a _miracle of intellectual mastery;_ a million other things that are beyond flattering yet slightly unnerving in their hasty delivery.

It’s an entertaining and deeply nourishing to her mottled ego, but Beth is not going to be satisfied by a victory tour on the press junket. She leaves Hollywood (beautiful, but empty) for Lexington (quiet, but bold) after a few weeks to begin the painful process of assimilation back into her own skin.

“You sure you can fit all of this” – Jolene gestures largely towards the kitchen table, atop which sits a giant homemade calendar packed with chess competitions and exhibitions –“into three months? Aren’t you going to need breaks in between all that traveling?”

“No,” Beth says firmly, without hesitation. “I’m not going to slow down now. Idle hands, and all that.”

Jolene offers her a look – not entirely sympathetic, more appraisingly supportive. “No pills, then? While you’re gone?”

“No pills,” Beth confirms, beginning to roll up her calendar at the breadth. “None since Moscow, actually.”

She’d had to go to the local copier store yesterday to ask for their largest poster, unprinted and empty. It had taken her a few hours to read through all the newsletters and open all the invitations that had been sent during her absence, and then a few hours longer to mark squares with a ruler and fill them in.

“Three months. You ever been gone that long before?”

“Can’t say that I have,” Beth says, snapping a rubber band around the paper tube. “That’s the thing about orphans, though, right? We’re adaptable.”

“Adaptable, sure. A little bit insane? That’s just you.” Jolene shakes her head. “What’s gonna happen to this place while you’re gone?”

That gives Beth pause. “I guess I hadn’t thought about it. I’ve been gone for long periods of time before, never seemed to matter much besides the mail piling up a bit.” She teases Jolene with a grin. “You feel like housesitting?” 

Jolene looks back, incredulous. “Oh, sure. Black girl in an empty white house in a white neighborhood? No, I think I’ll hold off on getting my ass beat for now, thanks.”

Beth shrugs, a bit embarrassed. She slides the calendar into her carry-all and snaps it shut. “That’s fair. Still, you’ll keep in touch, won’t you?”

Jolene laughs softly. She opens the front door, carrying Beth’s other bag. They move together, leisurely, towards Jolene’s flashy red Corvair. “I think it might be easier if you keep in touch with _me,_ instead. You have my number; I won’t have yours when you’re out” – she waves her open palm in an few oblong circles – “ _galivanting_.”

Beth laughs, unguarded. “You make it sound so glamorous. It isn’t always so flashy, I swear. The place I stayed in New York –”

An uncomfortable pause, now. The suitcases are loaded and the two young women tuck themselves into the front seats. Jolene keys the ignition on and it rumbles happily, completely unaware of the wet blanket Beth just threw on the conversation.

“Still haven’t talked to him, huh?”

“Not since Moscow.”

“But you’ll try to see him in New York?”

“Tomorrow, if I can. But I’m staying in a hotel; I’ll keep my distance until he’s ready to see me.”

Either way, they’ll be seeing each other at the annual Chess Festival in Miami, six days from now. Signing autographs at a booth for four hours straight is not really Beth’s thing – not really _anyone’s_ thing, most likely – but she’s trying to get back in good graces with the Federation and is being paid handsomely to make an appearance, to boot. First, though, she’s been asked to play in a series of exhibition matches with some high-profile CEOs in New York. It’s just a publicity stunt, but again – she’s getting paid.

(Plus, it gives her the opportunity to make things up to her old coach while she’s there.)

“What if he doesn’t want to see you?”

Beth shivers involuntarily – a reaction to the warm car juxtaposed with the cool night air.

“I’m just trying to be realistic, babe. I know how… difficult, that was.”

“I know,” Beth says quickly. Jolene has already given so much that it would be unfair to ask her to be the guardian of Beth’s feelings, too. “And I appreciate your candor.”

She smiles sideways at this. Jolene, like Townes, holds a piece of Beth in her hands, and unbelievably, she trusts them to keep it safe. _Companions,_ she thinks again. “But… Benny, above all else, is logical. I think, if nothing else, he’ll stick around to hear an explanation. Maybe an apology, if I’m lucky, but it can’t be too straightforward. He doesn’t like to feel patronized.”

“Sounds like someone else I know,” says Jolene, reaching over to pinch lightly at Beth’s forearm. They laugh together at this, before Beth shifts the focus of conversation to ask about Jolene’s job, her white coworkers, her white kind-of-boyfriend, the status of her aspirations. They talk about her bar exam study group, the types of firms she’s interested in working at after she passes the test. “Lot of good needs to be done right here,” she says, when Beth questions why she didn’t try to take the bar in a more exciting state like New York or California. “Can’t turn your back on your own community just because you made it big, right?”

Beth agrees, resoundingly.

It doesn’t take too long before Jolene is pulling up to the terminal at Blue Grass. She shifts the car into park, and they both take a long moment in silence just to look at each other.

“You’ll come back, when you’re done?”

Beth smiles – it feels good just to be _wanted_ ; to know that someone is going to miss her, and she them. “I’m coming back,” she promises. “I’ll be calling, and writing. Checking in on you.”

Jolene helps her with her luggage, leaving the bags on the curb next to the car while they embrace tightly.

“Oh, leave me your house key.”

“…Why?” Beth asks, confused and a bit apprehensive.

Jolene looks down on her from the tops of her sunglasses - and beams. “I’ll get your mail for you, cracker.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello! It's been a second. 
> 
> Unfortunately, seasonal depression hit extra hard this year (thanks, COVID) and I was feeling a bit lost and without inspiration for a bit. I'm feeling a bit lethargic still (plus, I have a real-person job that unfortunately takes priority), but we're back on track with a new work that will follow this one, and I think it'll be real healing for all of us to watch Beth and Benny heal too (and be in love!!).
> 
> In other news, I made a tumblr! I've never used it before so I have no idea what I'm doing. If people want to come show me the ropes or send a message or just generally yell in my direction to keep writing that would be lovely! Find me at dialectica-esoterica, or [this](https://dialectica-esoterica.tumblr.com/) link!


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